


Quirks

by TiaRachel



Series: Quirks [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aww clint, Coffee, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Laundry, M/M, Pizza, brief mention of pigeons, finger-footsie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-03-27 15:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13883373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiaRachel/pseuds/TiaRachel
Summary: Phil and Clint have two coffeemakers (no keurig. First of all, one cup isn’t nearly enough. Secondly – do you have any idea how much waste those things generate Clint? Have you flown over the pacific plastic patch lately? Go do that. Next time you’re in the area you do that. Want me to find those pictures of those dead baby birds again? I thought not).They drink the same coffee, mostly. Same strength. Will drink out of each others cups (mostly to tease and/or irritate Phil, but also randomly).However.Clint drinks from the carafe.





	1. Phil and Clint have two coffeemakers

Phil and Clint have two coffeemakers (no keurig. First of all, one cup isn’t nearly enough. Secondly – do you have any idea how much waste those things generate Clint? Have you flown over the pacific plastic patch lately? Go do that. Next time you’re in the area you do that. Want me to find those pictures of those dead baby birds again? I thought not).  
  
They drink the same coffee, mostly. Same strength. Will drink out of each others cups (mostly to tease and/or irritate Phil, but also randomly). However.  
  
Clint drinks from the carafe.  
  
Because why get a mug dirty unnecessarily Phil? Do we need another mug sitting in the sink all day long until someone decides to finally wash it after the dried coffee has adhered to the ceramic seriously just rinse the thing out even and you know the dishwasher is right there it is possible to open it up at times other than after dinner Phil it doesn’t break if you open the damn thing more than once a day.  
  
Not to mention taking the extra unnecessary seconds to refill said mug when they both know that he’s going to be finishing the entire pot.  
  
(And he’s used to it. He’s – still – not used to having a dishwasher. Or a real stove. And a fridge and freezer which is almost never actually full of food but could be. I mean, they’ve got a thing of artisanal mustard which is almost as old as the fridge. Not gonna throw it away because it’s food, even if it only tastes good on that one kind of cheese. And an entire complete set of sheets and towels. More than one entire complete set of sheets and towels. And. Anyway. First thing in the morning, Clint drinks his coffee from the carafe.)  
  
Thing is.  
  
It creeps Phil out.  
  
Yes, he’ll share mugs with Clint.  
  
And kiss him.  
  
And kiss him while drinking coffee.  
  
And on the appropriate occasion deal with assorted other bodily fluids, both in pleasant and horrific circumstances, without qualm.  
  
But having a mug of coffee from a carafe from which someone, even Clint, has drunk.  
  
<< shudder. >>  
  
So they have two coffeepots.  
  
It’s not like the coffee doesn’t all get drunk.  
  
(And if Phil just happens to have stocked up on the perfect carafe which just perfectly fits Clint’s hand and mouth and perfectly fits the length of his biceps and triceps even see look it’s ergonomic and feels right against his lips and tongue heh made you blush are you thinking crude coffee thoughts Coulson? so that when it inevitably breaks there’s another one right there, well.  
  
This might explain why they got married.)


	2. The Towels Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing about the towels. Well, it’s not a thing, it’s just a thing, y’know? It’s not, like.
> 
> See, Phil doesn’t have a thing about towels.

The thing about the towels. Well, it’s not a _thing_ , it’s just a thing, y’know? It’s not, like.

See, Phil doesn’t have a thing about towels. When he’s on assignment, or when he was in a dorm or in barracks or in a safehouse or even in someone else’s home, there’s no towel thing. And the only towel thing he has in hotels is this new thing where they ask you to throw the towels on the floor if you want new ones, because his Mom taught him better than that (if he folds them first, that’s between him and the cleaning staff).

And it’s not a thing, right? It’s just… a thing.

See, Phil grew up with a bunch of little sisters. And then there was the dorm, and then barracks, and then he was on base.

And then he got his actual own place, with his actual own kitchen and bathroom just for him and appliances including a washer/dryer in a closet off the kitchen and a linen closet and his almost-everything-he-owned in a duffel bag and a couple boxes

And his Mom (and those not-little-anymore sisters) insisted on helping him get set up (Dad just talked about how he’d want to upgrade the thermostat and did he know where the fusebox was). Phil apparently needed a full kitchen set. And at least two sets of sheets (‘But I don’t even have to go out to do the laundry, Mom!’ said mostly to get that eye-roll, but the end result was that Mom bought him sheets. And so did his little sisters. And if his little sisters all teamed up to get him Captain America sheets -- different sets of Captain America sheets -- well, bonus.)

Phil also apparently needed a full set of towels. Mom got him a very nice, high thread count ("they do that for towels too?" "Honestly, it’s the same thing. These are nicer and they’ll last longer") complete double set ("you might have a visitor, don’t blush, we know our son is a grown man") of masculine blue towels that matched the bathroom tile.

(When he expounded to his oldest younger sister, who was only a year apart and had never really felt ‘younger’ like the littler girls had, about how towels apparently come in masculine, she got him a very definitely feminine set. Which he decided he was ok with, because that shade of pink contrasted nicely with that masculine blue bathroom tile and he liked flowers. Flowers were nice. And anyone who was likely to find out about the gender identity of his household linens was a) likely to share his views on gender roles and gender essentialism and b) going to be close enough to hear the story about his aggravating little sister.

(Except that he then told the after-work drinks crew the whole story, which was also ok because siblings, right? Also free towels.)

(And if he also had Captain America beach towels, it was just because normal towels weren’t large enough and the linen closet still had empty shelves, after all. And if he’s buying something, he might as well buy it to match the sheets.)

So, the towel thing. Which is not a thing, just… he unexpectedly had a lot of towels, ok? It just happened. It was an artifact. Of having a lot of towels.

The thing is.

Once you use them, towels are dirty.

Even if you’ve gotten squeaky clean. Even if you’ve exfoliated.

(hush. He has sisters, all right? And it was maybe a bonding thing with, um, someone he shared a shower with on occasion.)

(Yes, it was Clint. Clint has no shame. And apparently a random kind of unexpected jealous urge, god forbid anyone think that Phil had ever had another shower-sharing eligible partner. Also turns out it feels good. No, the exfoliating. Also other parts of the shower-sharing experience which are private, thank you, and no one else’s business. Don’t blame me for what your overimaginative mind comes up with.)

Once you use them to dry off, towels are -- not clean. Even if the water you end up using to clean them is the exact same water from the exact same pipes as the water that ends up on your skin in the shower. Even if the skin you’re drying off is perfectly, even excruciatingly clean.

Towels, once used, are dirty.

But that’s not the towel thing. Which is not a thing.

See.

So, towels are a one-use and then into the laundry thing. Not a problem, right? We’ve got lots. Except that you’re not going to run the laundry every day. And in this job, even on days when you absolutely certain that you’re going to be home at a reasonable time tonight, sometimes you’re not. Sometimes you’re not home for days. Occasionally weeks.

So the wet towels need to be dried. Reasonable. Dumping them in the hamper or directly into the laundry means mold. And running them through the dryer would be a foolish waste of electricity (plus, you might think they’re clean when they’re actually not)(oh my god)(tell me I’m wrong). So you hang them up, right?

So. Here’s the towel thing.

Clean towels are on the right side of the shower  
(left.  
(Left as you go in, right as you come out. The side where the showerhead is.  
(Right.)

Clean towels belong on this side of the shower. Dirty -- damn, it, they’re not dirty. Used. Unused towels belong on one side of the shower. Used towels belong on the other. They do not belong over the shower (because there are two of us and whoever takes the second shower has to work around the dirty towel and then it gets soaked and drips on the floor and why do we have those hangers anyway they were embedded in the wall when I bought the place that’s what they’re for Clint that is the entire reason for their existence)(and we wouldn’t want to invalidate the existential consciousness of towel hooks)(exactly)(we should ask your mother if towel hooks have gender identities)(hush you love my mother)(and her occasional gender essentialism).

And.

After that amazing safe house experience when we had a towel warmer.

And Clint thought that was a) an amazing invention the absolute peak of human sybaritic inventiveness and b) a solution to the wet towel thing which absolutely is not a thing because it isn’t, ok.

And Clint bought a towel warmer.

And then Clint had to buy another towel warmer, so that there would be a towel warmer to warm the clean towels and another towel warmer to dry the unclean towels.

(Unclean! Unclean!  
(Hush. Like you don’t have quirks  
(Unclean!  
(Has anyone ever passed out from the giggles?  
(I think we’re going to find out.  
(I think we need another round of whatever this was.)


	3. Tony Stark has excellent coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark has excellent coffee. World class beans, pinpoint roast, state-of-the-art brewing equipment.
> 
> And Phil Coulson has just realized that his job is now super-nannying a superhero. Who he really can’t tase into the carpet, even if the man didn’t have a heart condition

Barton prefers his coffee stand-a-spoon-in-it black or melted ice cream, no in-between.

Coulson takes his coffee black, but under appropriate circumstances (needing extra calories, having a little agita, lousy coffee) he’ll add creamer and/or sweetener. Real dairy -- whole milk -- and real sugar, by preference, but he’s flexible. 

However. 

Tony Stark has excellent coffee. World class beans, pinpoint roast, state-of-the-art brewing equipment. 

And Phil Coulson has just realized that his job is now super-nannying a superhero. Who he really can’t tase into the carpet, even if the man didn’t have a heart condition. 

It’s Phil’s job to keep Stark balanced (hah!) at that point where he’s focused enough on the task of saving his own fucking life to do the job, but not so focused that he forgets to eat and sleep. 

Stark has excellent coffee. And Coulson hasn’t had lunch yet and breakfast was free hotel faux-bagels and cheap brown liquid caffeine many hours ago, so he grabs the half-and-half and two sugar cubes because he needs the calories, dammit. 

And Tony Stark jumps out of his skin. He -- shivers. No, shudders. Literally. He is so horrified by this adulturation of his glorious brew that he quivers in disgust. 

Well, isn’t that interesting. 

The next morning, the rest of the half-and-half container is gone. So is the sugar. And Stark is smirking. 

Pancake syrup is surprisingly successful. Stark squeaks. He actually squeaks. 

This… becomes A Thing. Previous adulturants tend to disappear, but new potential blasphemies turn up in the daily grocery deliveries. 

Jelly’s fine. The part where Coulson discourses on how different fruit might accentuate the natural flavors of the coffee (and holds Stark’s disturbed attention) is wonderful. Raspberry is maybe not the best match for this bean, however. 

Various nut milks are ok. Not creamy enough. And the various flavored creamer-things get a meh, and commentary on artificial flavors, high-fructose corn syrup, and trans fats.

Coconut milk is surprisingly good, especially when enhanced with a bit of cayenne and a twist of lime. Stark is actually stunned silent, however briefly. 

Dill really did not work. Really. But Stark’s convinced to try it (the coconut milk blend went well), so that’s a win. Totally makes up for having to finish the cup. (A bit of salt helped. Why hadn’t he tried salt yet? Seems obvious in retrospect). 

Later, when he tells Clint about his time babysitting Stark, Phil just says ‘Make sure you ask him about the coffee.” 

And grins.


	4. Pizza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have to know Clint a while before you figure out his favorite kind of pizza.

You have to know Clint a while before you figure out his favorite kind of pizza. 

It’s not really a secret, not like the thoroughly reasonable or just a bit unreasonable or wildly irrational secrets people (especially people in this business) keep. 

And it’s no secret at all that, if there’s some bizarre who’d-ever-thought-a-that option on the menu, that’s what Clint will order. 

(He has a great time in Japan. Brazil, too.) 

His colleagues will speculate (where he can’t hear, of course) about a deprived childhood, about a culturally-enriched-though-impoverished childhood, about super-secret-spy techniques, about a personal discipline involving unfamiliar food…

(On one long assignment, some of them come up with a whole background story involving a secret order of monks -- who of course intuited and encouraged his incredible abilities -- along with a couple super-secret-mystical-order-of-monks explanations for why he eats like he does. The one that eventually catches on in the rumor mill and sticks around for years claims that, should he ever fail to try an unfamiliar-to-him food, he’ll lose all his super-secret-mystical-sourced skills and become Just An Ordinary Man. 

He loves that one. Nearly as much as the rumor that he’s actually the current incarnation of the Spirit of Archery. William Tell, Robin Hood, Hawkeye.)

(He tried to introduce non-western historical and mythological archers to the story, but none of them stuck. Shame, because that’s where the action is.)

Some of his friends and colleagues, of course, think when he inevitably orders the mayo-and-octopus-and-m&ms or whatever pizza, he’s basically being a dick. 

None of them are exactly wrong. 

(Except for the Secret Order of Weird Pizza Monks. Establishing which has become his retirement goal, should he live so long.)

(And the Avatar of Archery thing, which he and Coulson came up with while watching old movies one weekend.)

Clint does try to cultivate unpredictability. Or at least (since ordering the most bizarre crap available is predictable) to hide his genuine, as opposed to constructed, preferences. 

And Clint did grow up poor, and spent most of his childhood in unconventional circumstances. A lot of the foods and pop culture and things that most of his middle-class American colleagues take for granted are pretty much unknown to him (though not to the extent that he lets people believe), and his ordinary is unusual to most. 

He also grew up hungry. It wasn’t as bad once they got to the circus -- if he was willing to help cook, he’d eat. And the guys who ran the food concessions would let a hungry kid have a hot dog or a slice if he’d watch the till sometimes.

(Turns out a hot dog wrapped in a pizza slice tasted pretty good when you’re at the inch-taller-a-week stage of teenager.)

And they got paid, and there were always jobs even in the off season. But you didn’t turn down food. 

And sometimes you could make a couple bucks betting that you could too eat the whole thing, whatever horrible combination it was. 

Usually they weren’t horrible-horrible, just, like, gross. Whipped cream on ribs. Squeeze cheese and sardines on chocolate ice cream (that one nearly got him. The beer helped. A lot). But it got him a full stomach and a full wallet, so. 

He kept that up for a long time, well after he really needed to. Made him friends. Made sure his new friends had certain assumptions about him. That was useful. 

But when it came to bizarre pizza -- _someone_ thought this thing tasted good. Or should taste good. Or might. Or at least wouldn’t send the paying customers to the hospital. Anyway, it wasn’t ever as bad as sardines and yellow cheese and chocolate ice cream. You just had to forget it was supposed to be ‘pizza.’ 

And when given a choice, he… liked to make different choices. Because he could. Also because it was good to stay unpredictable, to not quite let people know your real preferences and your real habits, but mostly because he had lots of choices now and wanted to try as many as he could. So if there was something completely unfamiliar on a restaurant menu, that’s what he’d go for. 

When no one was around, though. 

Or when the only people around were people he was comfortable with. 

And the pizza was going to be from a place he’d bought from before. 

Well, he’d still mix it up sometimes. 

But. 

When he was a kid. Before. 

Back when he was learning his shapes.

When there was a paycheck, Daddy would bring home pizza. 

If he brought home beer, you went to bed early. But if it was pizza, you got to watch tv and eat pizza. And the only yelling might be at the tv, but that was ok yelling. 

Clint liked the kind of pizza that was a big circle with little circles on it.  And if you looked at the little red circles, they had little white circles in them sometimes. He liked that. All the circles the same but smaller. 

Only the little circles were too spicy, so he took those off and Daddy got more which made him happy. But it still tasted different than just plain pizza (... _Barney_. Did too).

The first night at the first other house, the lady said they could have any kind of pizza, and when Clint didn’t say anything because Barney wasn’t saying anything, she said they could have all the kinds and see what they liked best. Which confused him until the pizzas came and he saw what she meant. 

The little circles were called Pepperoni. There was also pepper, which looked pretty but tasted yuk and not like pepperoni, which was weird. Mushrooms were slimy and looked like slugs so Barney who was 9 said they were his favorite. And there was pineapple, which made Clint laugh but Barney said it was fruit so didn’t belong on pizza (which is _why_ Clint laughed) so he didn’t try that. And there was sausage, which was good but was best when Clint took the pepperoni circle-slices off and put the sausage pieces there instead (Barney said not to but the lady said it was ok, all the pizza was for them. Which meant they’d have breakfast, too). 

Clint felt so grown up the first time he ate the pepperoni and really liked it. The whole thing, not just the way it flavored the cheese. 

And he still liked the way it was little circles on a big circle. 


	5. Laundry day part 1

“You have the best fucking aim on the planet why are your socks always… fuck.”

“I can’t hear you I’m actually washing the dishes before they fossilize”

“Under the dresser how the hell”

“And then I’ll dry them and put them away into these huge cabinets where there is plentiful empty, dusty space”

“That’s it. I’m buying you one of those basketball-hoop laundry hampers.”


	6. Laundry day part 2

“Just so I’m clear on this.”  
“Yeeeees…”  
“Whites are separate from darks”  
“Yes.”  
“Which are separate from colors”  
“Also denim. That’s right”  
“Except these whites don’t get washed with those whites”  
“These are cotton. Those are blends.”  
“...”  
“It matters.”  
“Uh-huh. And towels get washed completely separately.”  
“Also the sheets.”  
“Mmhmm"  
“Because. And if you use dryer sheets on towels, they become less absorbent. But if you don’t use dryer sheets on everything else, you get static.”  
“And everything gets washed cold because environmentalism.”  
“Unless you have microscopic thingies that need killing, yes.”  
“...”  
“But if it’s really nasty, use the industrial machines at work. I mean, skin cells and sweat and whatever.”  
“That’s marginally better than I was imagining, yes. So, sheets and towels and underwear.”  
“Yep.”  
“And the detergent.”  
“This. This one is for stains. This is for those black jeans. I think there’s dye in it. Keeps them dark, anyway. And these are bleach.”  
“To be certain we’ve assassinated all those microscopic thingies.”  
“Exactly.”  
“Need to get R&D on microscopic bow & arrows. Knives, at least.”  
“That might save on bleach but probably not on time.”  
“I’m… I’m sorry. We’re saving time here”  
“That’s right.”  
“With a dozen loads of laundry. We’re saving time.”  
“Are you laughing at me?”  
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Laundry is serious business.”  
“Damn right.”  
“I can’t believe I ever thought you were straight.”  
"Now who's being gender essenti--mmmm"  
"I think we should mess up another set of sheets. Balance the load."  
"Just so we're being efficient."  
"Uh-huh. Efficient."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference  
> https://www.mamaslaundrytalk.com/laundry-basics-how-to-sort-clothes
> 
> (April 2 changed some typos & a couple words here and there)


	7. Pizza part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Phil and Clint agreed that one of the best things about taking assignments away from home was the food.

Phil didn’t like to admit it, but his favorite pizza was a New York slice from a New York hole-in-the-wall (delivery windows are technically holes in the wall) eaten folded just right on the street in New York. 

He’d been one of those kids who was Going To Be A New Yorker One Day. And he privately felt that anyone who wasn’t from New York (and some that were) who didn’t explicitly feel like An Authentic New Yorker when they did something like eat a New York slice from a New York hole in the wall on the New York street, at least sometimes, was probably lying to themselves. 

(Of course, he’d also been Going To Be The President. And Captain America’s New Sidekick, once he was found and defrosted because OF COURSE the superserum had kept him alive! And a baseball/football/basketball/hockey player. Basically all the sports, so he could play year-round. And a comic book writer. And a toy inventor. And, that first summer he got to mow the lawn on the riding mower, the guy who mowed patterns into the greens at ballparks.)

When he was just getting a slice, it was usually plain. Sometimes he’d get pepperoni. Sometimes, when he was with Clint, he’d get pepperoni so he could take the pepperoni off and feed it to Clint. 

(Pepperoni was the favorite that Clint pretended he didn’t have. Pepperoni hand-fed to him by Phil was the favorite he’d admit to. Especially the licking-the-flavor-off-Phil’s-fingers part. That was not a thing they did in company, though. Usually. One of the fundamental purposes of friends is to be messed with.)

On his own, if he was getting a whole pizza, he’d generally get the meat-lovers. And after his 37th birthday, he’d often get something vegetable put on (there was a longstanding not-exactly-argument about whether tomato counted as a vegetable for the sake of pizza nutrition. Even though it was technically a fruit). Their favorite pizza place, where they’d sometimes go and chat with the guys, took that as a challenge (because that’s how he ordered, “throw a vegetable on there”). If things were busy, he’d get peppers, maybe olives, possibly mushrooms. If the guys had a bit more time, he might get eggplant or lettuce or, on one occasion, a piece of pickle. Just the one. Right in the center, cut perfectly so that each slice had a touch of vegetable on it. They figured it had been a slow night. 

Phil and Clint had had pizza on every continent including Antarctica and in just about every country in the world, though sometimes they had to stretch definitions in order to call it ‘pizza’ (flatbread + stuff, right?). They joked about retiring and writing a travelogue series -- or maybe a cookbook -- “Pizzas of the world.” Pizza around the world? The world according to Pizza? The Secret Agent’s Guide to Global Pizzerias? Something like that. 

One of the things Phil loved about his job was the travel. Sometimes it was the sort of ‘travel’ he associated with old army recruitment ads -- barracks and soldiers and MREs in places that notably differed mostly in air temperature and humidity levels, or in the shades of brown or green that existed outside the metal-and-camo uniformity of the base. And sometimes the biggest difference between places was the language being spoken on the comm screens he was watching. But most of the time, he got to spend at least a little bit of the day in villages or cities around the world that were someone else’s hometown, taking in the local architecture and fashion and local plants and animals and birds.

(Turned out SHIELD had a thriving birder community. There was a dedicated server hosting people’s life-lists. Periodically someone posted reminders that locations and any location-identifying details were potential security breaches and seriously people you know this do not repeat do not advertise that you have finally seen that one bird which exists only in a place where US Government agents absolutely were not present especially not during the time period when the bird would have had that plumage! Are you goddamn people goddamn intelligence agents or not!)

(Clint participated in the birder nonsense, but he only posted about pigeons. And he scrubbed location- and species-identifying details from his postings, so it was all ‘gray’ ‘black’ ‘shiny’ ‘cool facial markings kinda like a batman mask’ ‘friendly’. The rest of the birders had no idea if he was making fun of them or if he just really enjoyed the company of pigeons.)

(He did like pigeons. He had a soft spot for animals which were unimpressed by humans except as a potential source of snacks.)

(Phil didn’t keep track, because a) they were there to work and not get distracted and b) keeping records was a potential security breach, but on those rare occasions when there wasn’t anything to look at but the flora and fauna, he’d sometimes point out some species that only existed in this one spot in the world.)

Both Phil and Clint agreed that one of the best things about taking assignments away from home was the food. Sometimes they’d get stuck with MREs and whatever other pre-prepared things the people who stocked safehouses stocked safehouses with, but a lot of the time they could experiment. Exactly how much depended on what their covers were -- some weren’t going to go to fancy restaurants, some wouldn’t go anywhere but a fancy restaurant, and others wouldn’t be seen dead buying one of each kind of candy bar in the market -- but most could eat street food, at least for lunch.

Clint was amazing at finding the best cheap food out there. He’d essentially been doing food service since joining the circus at 9, so he kept an eye out for probable sources of food poisoning, but that wasn’t nearly as much a risk as the people who never left headquarters thought it was. Local food, made by people who knew their customers and expected to sell to them in the future, was usually fine. 

Well before they realized that this is kinda what a date was -- and even after they started going out of their way to make themselves formally be Agents Coulson and Barton away from home -- Phil and Clint made a game of taking turns finding the best takeout to bring back to the safehouse at night. “Best”, of course, sometimes meant weirdest. Which was not necessarily the same as good, but sometimes it was. 

(Their fellow agents, the ones who were also friends, thoroughly enjoyed the ‘do they realize they’re dating’ era. Mostly.)

(Even before they realized there was A Thing here, Agents Coulson and Barton were carefully Agents Coulson and Barton around fellow agents and other co-workers who they wouldn’t feel comfortable getting drunk and mopey in front of.)

(Not that either of them ever got mopey-drunk.)

(Nuh-uh.)

Anyway. 

Their first actual real date ended up being fish shack & fries on the beach. At sunset. It was amazingly romantic. They were busy congratulating themselves about how this wasn’t weird at all when they realized maybe why, and agreed to never, never let on to anyone else that they hadn’t realized until now. 

And then they explored the difference between holding hands to help someone up, holding hands when that someone was injured and needed human contact, and holding hands to play (essentially) finger-footsie. 

Finger-footsie was definitely the best. 

Lookit how it made him smile.


End file.
